-August- Back Home

Well, that took considerably longer than I thought it would.

Almost a week longer than I thought it would, actually. All thanks to a note taped to the sender's door when I arrived on Wednesday night.

"To the courier -

Took the package myself. Hope the money will cover the gas cost.

God bless,

Stephanie"

I could already see this was going to be a nightmare, because of course I'm not allowed to just say 'oh, well, it's been taken care of' and take them money and run because of course it's never that easy, because there's no such thing as a normal delivery, especially if you're doing it by yourself and especially if you called us to do the delivery in the first place.

Oh, and the small stack of bills she left didn't even begin to cover the costs of travelling from the house to NYC. So there's always that.

... So I was going to hunt her down, then. A near impossible task considering the size of the big apple and the fact that Runners are usually really, really hard to find considering they're people who manage to stay mostly out of reach of Slim N' Trim himself.

Not exactly the easiest of tasks.

But as luck would have it, what do I hear over the radio as I start up the FREE CANDY van?

"... no evidence found. One child reported a man in a suit near the scene of the crime. Police are investigating."

After twenty minutes of staring hopefully at the radio, the story wasn't mentioned again. I didn't catch the location, but if the fact that this was a little too coincidental was anything to go by, I figured I could take a guess as to where the body had been found, and who the body belonged to.

I got to Central Park a bit before midnight, (Jesus Rollerblading Christ this is such a big city.) meaning most reasonable people had left and most of the police force had been sent out. I'll save you the details and tell you that the Central Park Police really know what they're doing.

Looks like I'd get lucky twice today, because the package was on the girl (or what was left of her) and I managed to get out without being caught.

I don't know how, either.

The drop-off was some little village called Mystic in Connecticut. (You may proceed to chuckle at the coincidence; I certainly did.) A five hour drive to avoid the mind-numbingly boring I-95.

But hey, despite having a case of wicked nausea that kept me pulled over every hour or so, (still haven't gotten all the Slendergunk out of me) I had Queen to keep me company.

She's a killer queen

Gunpowder, Gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Let me tell you a few things about the village of Mystic.

The village of Mystic is not a recognized municipality.

The village of Mystic has a population of 4001 people.

The village of Mystic has a total area of 3.8 square miles.

About ten percent of that is water.

The village of Mystic is located within another city by the name of Groton.

And on top of this, there's also the village of Old Mystic, which is about two miles bigger and actually marked on a map.

Needless to say, it was really, really easy to miss.

And guess which one I wasted a whole day in, before driving back out to the larger town of Groton to ask somebody who might actually know what they're doing.

Well, I found it.

It was Sunday by then. I had split the driving up into two days (I think I would die driving for five straight hours. Three hours on and off when I go on delivery with someone else is torture) and wasted Saturday in Old Mystic, growing increasingly frustrated and loathsome of the tiny cardboard box in the passenger's seat. I had decided sometime around Friday evening that there would be nothing short of heaven on earth that would make this delivery worth it. Hunting down a victim, stealing evidence, hundreds of dollars in gas money and fast food.

There's a reason I learned how to cook, you know.

Maybe one day I'll tell you.

Ha.

But back to the delivery.

On the box was an address somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, (And by suburbs, I mean about fifty town houses clustered together with a park somewhere in the middle.) and guess who was waiting for me when I arrived?

Nobody. I was about ready to break into the house, steal whatever was of value, drop the box and get home when their neighbor, regarding the package in my hand, approached me.

"Excuse me, little miss, can I help you?"

He was in his late 40s; salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet clinging to his eyes. A slight grin was playing on his face, brown eyes looking me up and down.

Creep.

"Delivery for mister... Church?" I ignored the middle bit of that statement. You're here to do a delivery, not to make enemies. Calm, calm...

His brow raised slightly. "Ian's not around, girly. If you step inside I'd be happy to sign for-"

"If you could just give me the spare key I can leave it inside."

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Nothing in that man's eyes was to be trusted. I took a step back and cut him off, trying very, very hard to hide the obvious irritation in my tone.

Needless to say, I failed.

He didn't like this one bit.

"Now listen here, you gotta be a little more respectful than-"

"We have explicit instructions from both Ian and the sender to leave it inside. It's very valuable. Something about a deceased relative? Anyways, he wants it inside and told me one of the neighbors would have the key."

Blatant lies.

Spencer had taught me well.

(And the nausea's acting up again. Jesus Rollerblading Christ. I need to get into a bathroom. Quickly.)

He didn't argue much after that, retreating back into the house and returning shortly with a key. Grumbling and some less-than-savory language may have been involved in the process, but I was beyond caring. The end was finally in sight.

There was no note because no doubt Mr. Church had expected this package days ago. He was probably on his way to New York to see the sender and... well, he wouldn't like what he found.

I entered the kitchen and left the cardboard box on the counter, glad to finally have that thing off my hands.

And then I realized.

I didn't specify payment.

And how did I know this?

By the stack of bills sitting in a clip on the counter, marked 'FOR THE DELIVERY.'

Notes on the fridge, on the table, in frames on the walls and written on the floor told me this guy had horrible memory issues. Induced by Slim N' Trim? Maybe. But I really didn't care. Something told me this guy would need the money for himself, if only to buy more stickies to write down his name, his home address, and why he's living alone and what was in the package.

A wedding band.

...

Suddenly, this hell became completely worth it.

I didn't take the cash, but there were some fantastic Italian cookbooks in the drawers next to the kitchen. I grabbed a couple (and one East Indian, mmmmmm~) and left my own note.

The drive home would take me another nine hours. Again, I split it into two days.

So now it's Wednesday at 5 AM and I come home, and of course the house is still a mess because I can't expect them to clean, but somebody did the dishes and the kitchen has been scrubbed down, though the smell of vomit and Slendergunk still clings to the air.

I'm dead tired and collapse onto the kitchen table, realizing how comfortable the chair is and what a great pillow this table makes.

I realize the others will be up in an hour or so.

I realize somebody needs to cook them breakfast.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I drag my legs up from under the chair and practically crawl towards the fridge, stubbing my toe in the dark (because by now I'm used to the headlights of the van) on the counter and yelping like a puppy who's taken his first fall down a flight of stairs.

The light from the inside of the fridge burns my eyes, and I'm looking through two hazy slits.

What's sitting on the top shelf?

A piece of cake, covered in plastic wrap, garnished with a piece of paper.

"Happy birthday, August!

♥"

Awwwwww.

It's got strawberry frosting jesus rollerblading christ strawberry frosting is my favorite and it could be made of sand and garnished with dandelion heads and it would still taste like sweet, sweet, strawberry-frosted heaven.

Breakfast would have to wait a few minutes, and the slight sugar high made pancakes much, much easier. I also only ended up cooking for five of us seeing as Steele and Todd have flown the coup, (at least for now) which is good because I only made half the recipe.

Anyways, Spencer says we're invited to a wedding tomorrow? I guess I'll have to catch up on blogs some other time. I've got a week's worth of sleep to catch up on and an outfit to plan out.

...

Wait.

Spencer, I'm wearing a what?!

-Spencer- Let's see some team spirit!

... which we're going to need, because, ladies and gentelman, we are-

Wait wait wait. Let's slow down a bit, shall we?

So we arrived, on time, en route to downtown Detroit, AKA the creepiest abondoned urban space on this side of the state. Steele took care of the pickup, and we only needed to get through the empty streets.

It was the only thing between us and cold, hard cash.
(Because as far as I'm concerened, the bigwigs can afford it. Fuck 'em.)

Well, that was the plan.

It was strange. As soon as we got to the city (and, consequently, went on foot, as per the rules), something changed.

We haven't seen another person, Proxy or otherwise, in hours. And the streets all converge into the same places and the architecture is slowly turning into Salvador Dali on a acid trip.

So it goes.

Ladies and gentelman, welcome to the jungle.

All things aside, they're going to start coming out of the fog soon. In the downtime, I'm going to nap. Loop time is almost as bad as Valve time, but hey, what can you do? Ahaha. We got caught in it anyway, it seems. "Stay one step ahead."

And we just had to stop to help that Runner get on his feet after being knocked down by a Proxy.

To be honest? I'm not sure if we're going to make it out of this one alive. But that's half the fun, isn't it? We're in The Loop and we're going to have to fight our way out.

Keep together, stay alert, and for god's sake, don't get lost, because I'm not coming to find you if you do.


Showtime.

-Spencer- Team, we need to talk

No, I'm not breaking up with you, but yes, I am going to fucking shank you all if you don't stop fucking arguing like a bunch of five year olds just because you discovered the magnificent invention that is the fucking comment button.

... Boss things aside, keep it up. Fucking hilarious, that is.

Alright. Now to business. The delivery starts at seven 0' clock SHARP tomorrow morning. No later. You're all expected to be in proper uniform and have all your supplies packed, and the rides will be ready. Bring your own food and weapons and yadda yadda yadda; we're not stopping until we reach the city, that clear?

Alright. Some clarification:

This is for GOVERNMENT BIGWIGS TO OTHER GOVERNMENT BIGWIGS. I'd tell you more, but for god's sake, I'm not even sure what we're dealing with. Follow the goddamn rules and we'll be fine. Don't, and we all die horrible, horrible deaths. Amanda is on another delivery, and will catch up if she can. Crow, if you're reading this, August says to re-calibrate the stations on the way, or something. God knows what he means.

So the trip to Detroit won't be too long. Once we reach downtown, we continue en route on foot. We pick up the... whatever it is when we enter the city, cross the core, and drop it off at the next rendezvous point, which is on our way back home.

DO NOT. STOP. FOR. ANYTHING.

Review the rules in my second post. Or don't. But I'm not stopping my sorry ass to save yours. Complete the delivery and you get paid. Plain and simple.

Oh, and if anyone out there needs us? If you're on the way, no problem. Just give us a call.

As for posting? Whatever you fucking want. I really couldn't give a rat's ass. As long as you don't post about the package, type about whatever to your little heart's content.

(ItwouldbeniceifHestoppedwatchingmefortwogodamnseconds)

Now, if you don't mind I'm going to try and get some sleep.

Ahahahaa.

Fat chance.

Be ready.

-August- Radio Towers in Thunderstorms

Are not fun at all.

Went out to pull down that station we set up near the local radio station. We've got a bunch of waypoints set up across the US and everything transmits back to here for when we're cross-country.

It's called Slow Scan for a reason, but it's difficult to decrypt if you're not the one receiving the signal and even more of a bastard to trace back to the source.

And somehow, they still found us.

Well, whatever.

Normally I'd be fine with this, but normally I wouldn't have to scale a radio tower at 3 AM in the middle of a thunderstorm, and normally my SSTV stations aren't smoldering piles of electronics by the time I reach the scene.

I guess somebody didn't want us rebuilding anytime soon.

Anyways, it was three in the morning and absolutely freezing because of the storm whipping around the rain like tiny shards of glass. About 100 feet up in the air, about the last thing you want is the persistent shaking of your hands as you try and disassemble the tangle of copper wires and half-broken satellite of what used to be your transceiver.

I wasn't sure if I was shaking because of the cold, the height, or oh god was that lightning in the forest oh god oh god this ladder had better be insulated it's not insulated is it oh god oh god please don't strike here Thor, if you can hear me I swear I will take up a sledgehammer and use that to fight in your honor for the rest of my life if you keep your electrostatic discharge away from me and let me get out of here in one piece.

August St. Claire: professional crop circle maker and stalkee of men in suits everywhere. Death by lightning strike for a satellite that didn't even work that well in the first place.

If it's worth anything, I got it back.

But not before our little Arsonist found me on the way back down.

(Harharhar. See what I did thar?)

And now I sound like Spencer.

He was a big guy. 6'5" and build like a fridge on legs. Came lumbering towards me and shouting some cryptic garbage that I didn't really pay attention to, because by the time he was close enough to me that I could make out the lines of his mask.

Now, I don't like to kill people. It's just not in my nature. But when a medium-sized dresser on legs comes up to me and growls like a rabid dog, I know my 5'3" frame isn't going to take him on with favorable results.

Luckily I don't have to worry about being big when I can be fast.

There's hardly time for him to blink. A pivot and a step and I've plunged my knife (a leaf blade; think a roman sword crossed with a bowie knife) into both of his legs and he's down, writhing in pain and screaming bloody murder.

Wimp.

I leave him there, making sure he's watching and still on the ground while I gather up the supplies and burn everything that can't be salvaged.

And what does Spencer tell me when I get back and inform him of what happened to our country-wide communication network?

" ... Wha?"

He's drunk. Again.

It's actually easier to note the times when the boss isn't slurring his vowels and hitting on anything with two legs and the appropriate plumbing between them.

"Nevermind. I'll get it back up in three days."

I really don't have the patience for this. I'm cold and soaked to the bone and just want to go to sleep.

He mutters something about setting out in five days, and goes off to hide in the eastern wing.

...

Hey.

Spence.

Give me some of that bourbon.

-August- It's weird.

You'd think it'd be hard cooking for seven.

(None of us really eat anyways.)

You'd think it'd be hard keeping this landfill of a house clean.

(Victorian. Would be worth a small fortune if it were fixed up.)

You'd think it'd be hard keeping sane when your boss is constantly drunk off his ass and won't stop flirting with you.

(Seriously, Spence. Stop that.)

But somehow, we get by.

And Amanda, I realize my coffee tastes like a war crime. I'm sorry, okay? You try keeping up with the messes you people leave behind and cook and tell me how much time you have to perfect your soy cappuccino with extra foam, no cream.

Not that I mind, though. In all honesty I'm absolutely terrified of the brown, twitching messes of burnt starch and stingy beef you people called stew I first ate when I came here - and you still make when Spencer sends me to do the small deliveries.

Prep for the latest delivery is going well despite my protests and the fact that somebody has managed to decrypt our radio frequency and now communications are down. I guess it's back to cellphones and pig latin for us until we get a new one up and running.

Great. Looks like I'll be climbing and disassembling another radio tower tonight.

Wahh wahh let's complain some more, shall we?

In all seriousness, I do actually have to go get to work on that.

Boss says this deliver's pretty important so our back-up isn't an option. We're handling sensitive material so we've got to be sure we can't be tracked or overheard. We don't want a repeat of the DL-9 incident. The last thing we need is to pick up and move again; wreck or not, this house is ideal for people like us, and the cafe across the street makes a mean cuppa joe.

Maybe I should ask the owner about teaching me how to make a decent espresso.

I'm sure Amanda would appreciate it.

-Spencer- Aaaaand look at us...

Bickering like little children. Almost warms the soul, if the damn numbness would give a break to the weary-

...

We've... we've been hit hard this week. You all should know who I'm talking about. But no point in focusing on the past, right?

...did I really think that would work? Might as well be honest about what we're all getting into, yeah? Didn' think it would come to this, but I've got to, because we've got a delivery to do.

There's a reason that the team 'sgot so many newbies. Last ones didn't make the delivery-

I can't remember his name. Wiry kid, always wore a hoodie, and had this positive MAT of blonde hair. Was only on for a few days before we got this job. Gotta pay the bills, y'know? And he wanted to come-

Y'see, it's an interesting case for us. We've been followed for so long, it's a way of life. But this kid... h'was fresh. Like Sam. But we're all kids when it comes down to it... Zero was around my age. S'only reason I made this blog. ENVY makes a good point. If I just left it to nothing, who would even know we were here...?

Sarah. A feisty girl. Most of you probably don't know who she was, but I s'watchin her. I watch a lot of you. Get a lot of free time when M'not doing deliveries.

Oh, right, how this works. Forgot. Hangovers I usually pile more bourbon onto but I'm sober for a reason.

There's two ways these jobs get done; on foot and the risky as fuck way I only do when I'm alone.

Needless to say, M'not elaborating on one of those.

On foot is easy enough; we move slow an'don't risk our hides, but keep ahead of trouble. Since we'll go anywhere, it's pretty simple. I have a few rules I follow, though;

To cover large open distances, we use whatever motor vehicle we can get our hands on.

Forests. Avoid 'em if we can. If not, get through them fucking quickly.

Supplies. Everyone brings what they need. No time for stoppin, until we reach cities.

Urban centers; we go on foot, an'close to each other. Easier to deal with proxies, if the need be.

Planes are safe for the most part when we get on to the time we get off. Got a truce on that.

And that's... pretty much it. Follow the rules and we stay exactly ONE step ahead of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Fuck up and I'll need some more newbies.

S'that simple.

As for the job? Srs bsns. Government shit for an old... acquaintance. We leave in, at most, a week. Feel free to elaborate for everyone out there, you guys. Now, if you don't mind-

Scott.

There we go.

I'm going to go have a drink with some old friends.

Cheers.